Deceiver
by ShadowWolf181
Summary: Iruka learns that not everything is as it seems... (Slight AU. Iruka x Kakashi pairing. Other pairings might be introduced. Warning inside.)


**Author's Note:** This story will be somewhat AU. It's a college setting in the Konoha Village. Iruka is 18 years old while Kakashi is 20 years old. Both characters will be slightly OOC for the sake of the story, but I'll try not to change them too much, otherwise they won't be the people we've come to love and appreciate anymore. Also, while the prologue may be a little confusing, just wait because it'll make sense in later chapters. 

**Warning:** It's supposed to be a mature fic filled with angst, drama and perhaps a bit of horror. Possible gore, strong profanity, pedophilia (don't condone it, but it'll have a purpose within the story) and, of course, there will be romance. If any of these things make you queasy or uncomfortable, then I suggest turning back now. Otherwise, please enjoy.

 **Disclaimer:** I _do not_ own Naruto or anything related to it.

~X~

 **Prologue**

Entrapped.

A simple yet meaningful word that I'm rather familiar with. A word to easily describe the quotidian cycle of my meaningless life. Also a word to explain the incorporeal sphere my father surrounded me in. "For your protection," according to him. Honestly? I think he's just ashamed or afraid of me. Afraid of what I might do and most likely _will do_ if I'm not kept under control.

Hmm… Control.

There's another word for you. Silence is key, silence is power. It conveys my role in all of this. My fate as well perhaps. Evidently, Father wants to keep me in my place so I don't humiliate them again. He nearly succeeded too, via bottle after bottle of meds prescribed by that quack psychiatrist. Dr. Sato insists there is something wrong with me, an abnormality in my noggin, and that I'm different from other people. Unfortunately, Father is inclined to concur when it comes to the gooddoctor's so-called diagnosis. Except Dr. Sato doesn't know shit, none of them do. Nothing is _wrong_ with me. I'm just _different._ I found that out when I turned eleven, possibly even before then. Still, I can't say I blame my father for believing otherwise. No parent wants to admit there's something off about their kid. But when the evidence begins to pile up before their very eye, it's a steep downward spiral from there on.

And while we're still on the topic of downward spirals, you should know that today Laura actually acknowledged to my face how much she loathed my guts. I was elated to say the least, since the feeling was mutual. The woman isn't my real mother anyway. After my bio mom died from a terminal illness my father eventually remarried. It was awful, seeing my beautiful mother wither like a neglected bouquet. Kohari Umino had been a rose among thorns, breathing life into everyone she met. Until that soul-sucking demon whore practically forced her way into our lives. Laura failed to have the decency to stay away—even when Mother was on her deathbed. Rather than alleviate the pain of our grief, she twisted it to her benefit. I suppose her _sole_ saving grace is Caitlyn—my fourteen year old stepsister. That two-faced bitch is such a fraud I always pondered how she birthed an angel.

Putting all that useless info aside…

I royally fucked up.

Which means I've once again locked myself in the basement bathroom. It's one of my few sanctuaries because hardly anyone uses it. As pathetic as it sounds, it's here where I feel truly welcomed. A place where no one can see my vulnerability. My bedroom is not secure enough for what I plan to do. I'm resting on the newly refurbished tile floor, my back leaning against the porcelain toilet bowl as snot mixes with salty streams of tears caused by my hideous sobs. A bottle of sedatives prescribed to my evil stepmother is vibrating between my quavering hands while I struggle to remove the cap. Wisps of steam rise into the quiet air from the hot water that fills the clawfoot tub. I don't know why, but I had always felt like a watery grave suited me best. They say drowning is serene and liberating. Just let the prismatic liquid enfold your body as it lures it into the depths of oblivion. Others say it's total bullshit and hurts like holy hell. Personally, I prefer the ocean. I'd rather have my bloated corpse torn asunder by marine life, than slowly masticated by maggots. Revolting.

Upstairs, I can hear the bedlam of scurrying feet and frantic voices. The party being held earlier was officially done. It died when _he_ died. I wish I can say it's not the first time, that it's happened before and everything turned out all right. But it's not, and it hasn't. It's only Friday, but it feels like the end of the world. Part of me wishes it was. Release Armageddon. Let it rain fire and ice, or whatever the hell it says in the Holy Book.

Because _he's_ gone. And it's my fault.

If there is a god, then He knows I'm nothing without him. Nothing.

Out of nowhere, through the pitiful pools of cloudy waters which threaten to spill over my lower eyelids, I behold the image of a blurry young man. He looks so much like _him._ He stands in front of me, different colored orbs searing my flesh with their piercing gaze. His tall stature is stationary, ever vigilant as he exudes a degree of strength I have yet to witness in another person. Unexpectedly, he whispered a barely audible word.

Necronomicon?

Before I could reach out to him, I blinked and he vanished into thin air. He departed as silently as he had appeared, so that just for a second I had to convince myself that it was nothing more than a hallucination or a figment of my imagination. A sense of calmness swept over me like a cool wave. I had stopped weeping. It hardly made sense at the time, but that image had managed to dig up a forgotten memory. And my eyes opened wide as it abruptly dawned on me.

He could be saved. He could return from the realm of death.

And I could be his savior.


End file.
